The wanderings of a tauren
by TheWeeScottie
Summary: The chronicles of a Tauren character set in the World of Warcraft PC game.
1. Chapter 1: The call of the master

Black, like night's deepest dream; the sky rolled overhead. Rain threatened to lash down at any time, soaking and blessing the fertile land he'd come to know as home, since the early days when his tribe had taken him in. Him, a orphan from a young calf, found wandering the plains of Mulgore by Natae and Quando. They had rescued him, welcomed him, advised and trained him. He owed them much, though they would never accept anything in return, for there is great care among my kind.

The cold wind whipped at the Tauren's dented, battle-hardened armour, trying to find a crevice to slip in through; but to no avail. He tightened the straps on the frost-saber leather jerkin and stared back at the land that had given him the very materials that his clothing and armour were crafted from, with fondness in his eyes.

He would miss this place. But he had to go; the mossy havens beckoned. And besides, no-one turned down an audience with The Teacher, tribesman Tornhoof. The call must be answered; he had to go.

Taking his spear in hand, the raptor padding along at his side, he began his walk through the Barrens to the Ship that would take him to the port of Celeste on the Bronze-edge coast. The boat-ride upstream would take him to time at all, and then he could continue his training under the guidance of Tornhoof himself. He would return, he told himself, when his training allowed him time to visit his homeland once more, when he was older and wiser. Well, older in the least.

He allowed a small smile to himself as he smelt the faint haze of lifebloom on the wind. These smells and new experiences he would miss. His tribe would continue as they had before him, young hunters taking their place in his stead. They would be well-trained, he doubted that not.

But more than the land itself and even his tribe, he would miss this group of fellow warriors, workers of the elements and the magics, and even the fellow marksmen and beast-masters like himself that had welcomed him as a brother and trained him further in his craft, his understanding of the world and even in the ways of 'Trap Use' - their suggestions of hotkeys confused him somewhat, for why would you wish to heat a key if you were to use it? But then again, he reflected as he boarded the ship, you never could fully master all that you were taught. And as for 'leet speak', he had decided this must be an Alliance language, and a strange one at that; one he had _no_ desire to master.

Looking over the ship's prow, a spot in the distance caught his eye. He invoked the eyes of the beast (one of the few magics he had achieved proficiency in) and saw the dot to be a hawk on the horizon. The majestic creature held itself calmy and expertly against the wind's pull, harnessing its energy to soar, dive and rise, arching its back and cutting its wings through the currents as if it were a ship itself. Like the hawk on the horizon, he too would return to to stand among his brothers again and soar on the airs of victory in battle, to explore this new frozen land rumoured to have been spotted across the sea.

Yes, when his studies were completed, when he had instructed the young calves as they should know, he would return.


	2. Chapter 2: Training

As he rested under the shade of an leafy palm, he let his mind drift back, back to the chill air of the dead valley, and the opera house, with the musty smell of the ancient tomes, the foul stench on the air as the Bane beat the air with its rotted wings, and the hoards of skeletal occupants with their ravenous desire to slay all that would harm their master. He reflected on how easy things had seemed when your companions knew their roles, their strengths & desired nothing less than to vanquish the taint from the once-proud opera house.

A solid Thunk, followed by a low vibrating twanging noise (as if a stick insect were being played as a musical instrument) informed him that Shorthorn had missed the target dummy. Again.

Not only had be missed the dummy, but had succeeded in splitting the branch directly above his head neatly in two. As for the squirrel who had unwisely chosen to gather nuts right at that moment in time, well, he was sure the other masters would appreciate a snack in the mid-day sun.

Opening one eye, he noted Shorthorn casually leaning on his bow, turning progressively redder and redder. How on _earth_ a tauren managed to blush under all that hair was a complete mystery to him. Maybe it was a talent of his... Chamsra, his pet lynx looked back at him with a look that could only be described as pleading. Possibly pleading to be dismissed, and he did not blame her! How Shorthorn had come to tame her was a matter of great debate in the masters' hut, considering his allergy to animals, and his tracking abilities being on par of that of a blind tortoise. A hunter! Allergic to animals! The old tauren rolled his open eye and wondered what has posessed him to cross the Great Sea to Celeste.

A knock on the root beside him made him raise his gaze towards the leafy canopy. Tornhoof stood beside him, outlined by the sun as it filtered through. Leaning on his gnarled old spear, he turned to the Tauren with wisened eyes, 'You may be wise in the ways of the world as it has taught you, young calf, but there is a difference between knowledge and practical wisdom.'

'I have little interest in the politics of this world, aside from those of my kin, but if you are to best the Shrine of the Serpent, the lair of the pit lord, and even the temple of darkness itself, you must learn patience, discipline and focus. You will find these in no greater abundance than under my supervision. You must teach these young calves well, and teach them you shall. In sharing your skills and expertise, showing them the way with a knife on skin and hide, crafting traps of fire and ice, training them in tasting the air such that they can aim the steady shot upon their target with their eyes closed; in instructing them in these things, your ability with them shall improve althemore.'

He rested his spear beside his Tauren pupil, throwing the raptor the haunch of a chicken while resting against a twisted root. 'You shall return home, my young hunter, and soon. You shall fight again with giants, banish demons, and hunt in new lands. But for now, though you miss your homeland, with your companions and the familiar scents, focus on the task given to you.'

Rhakin raised a dubious eyebrow at Tornhoof, the old cow had taken him under his wing since arriving and had instructed him in how to teach - an intricate skill in itself! Not only that, but had told many tales of his youth; of scouring the plague cities, exploring the great deserts beyond Anh'Qiraj and even the frozen depths of the northern wastes. He had great respect for the old cow. Smiling as he returned Tornhoof's gaze, his weathered eyes wandered over the old tauren's shoulder to a dot on the horizon. The dot pitched and soared, dove and rose. Yes, he would return. In two full moons, when the wind blew west, he would return.

The Opera house with her treasures and promises of challenge and glory awaited.


	3. Chapter 3: A brief return

Ploughing a furrow through the teal-green spray, the ship cleared the breakers barricading Celeste's port and sprinted for the open sea. Well, sprinted implying it could out-pace an ailing seagul with double-vision...

The cool crisp air whipped at the Tauren's leather jerkin, reminding him again of the northern wastes as Tornhoof had regailed him in under the light of evening stars, as he taught him the constellations that had guided him across the seas and been his comfort in foreign lands. The now-familiar smells of Goldweed, Fenisk leaf & the Bronzish Pine caressed his senses, elicitng a strange sense of longing for this land he had only called home for 2 moon cycles.

Having completed his initial training under the intent gaze of the old cow, it had been decided that he would return to train and mentor new calves in the ways of marksmanship, pet mastering & trap creation. Though he did not yet know where he would take these new kin of his under his care, he had been instructed to meet Tornhoof at the port of Grendus in 3 cycles of the moon. There he would travel South down the Bronze-edge coast to a village as yet unknown to him.

A screech of a seagul snapped him back to senses. Instinct arced his body around, drawing his spear while taking a step back. Razor stood nearby, surrounded by a cloud of feathers. Rhakin could have sworn an innocent grin passed over the scaly facade of the raptor's jaw. Allowing himself a private grin himself, he closed his eyes, remembering the parting words of the wisened old Tauren, 'My brother, I cannot keep you here any longer, I have knocked some of my ways into that thick skull of yours, and you must put them to good use! You must return to the Eastern kingdoms and best the Prince himself. And you will regail me, for once, of your exploits in the Opera house and perhaps the Jungle fortress I have heard rhumour of. I will see you on your return.' And those were the last words he had imparted to the young tauren before retracing his steps down the jetty to the well-aged Kodo.

As the night's chill closed in around him, he doubled-clicked his tongue to bring the raptor in line with him and realised just how appealing his hammock now looked to him! He reflected that owing to the fair winds, the ship's journey would not take him as long as he had thought, allowing him to make port in only 4 days. As such, he had decided to return an owl to Mulgore to state his desire to lay claim to the Prince's bow. Now why did owls always conjure stories of crafters of the magics?! He was sure it must be a tale of human origin, for why would you send a message by a bird that could be passed instantly through the nether! Daft clothies, and their glowing fingers.

The Opera house awaited though, in only 3 sleeps, the Opera house awaited. The Prince would savour the bitter taste of Wickedness. The Tauren would soon hunt again.


	4. Chapter 4: Under death's stare

Black! Like night's darkest dream, the velvety stillness of midnight's shadow spread out over the face of the dry and dusty land, shrouding everything with its veil of secrecy. Silhouetted against the moon, the hawk hovered steadily over the Barren landscape, steeling itself against the chill of the midnight air. Somewhere down in the dense scrubland, its prey lay, waiting; biding its time until it chose to approach the still and inviting waterhole near the caverns. The hawk had learned to wait, becoming yet another patch of darkness in the night sky, and he knew that his patience would reward him.

A brisk wind whipped up the dust of the Barrens, threatening to dislodge the hawk from the thermal it had secured itself in, but to no avail. The hawk steadied itself and returned to its statue-like hover. It had ridden these airwaves since a hatchling, and knew every warm summer breeze, every gust from the chilly mountain passes and every lull of the deep valleys. What it did not expect, however, was the arrow.

Arrows, in the hawk's limited experience usually travelled horizontally from bent sticks and lodged themselves in animals and birds like gazelles and boars and chickens; creatures whose limited intelligence had earned them the evolutionary dunce cap of life in the survivability stakes. Arrows in general did not travel up from the ground. Maybe this one had lost its way? The hawk's decision to let the arrow carry on being lost (and in this remarkable turn of intellect, duck out of the way) was marred by one minor point: the arrow had seemed to have stopped. A closer inspection however, found that it had found lodgings in his stomach, his heart and his lungs. YOU APPEAR TO BE HAVING AN OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE. The hawk turned around to note the dark figure hovering directly next to him. Squawk? THAT WAS A JOKE. MY GRAND-DAUGHTER SAYS I SHOULD HELP PEOPLE LOOK ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF DEATH. DO YOU FEEL BRIGHT? Squawk! WELL, LAUGHING NOW RATHER DEFEATS THE POINT OF THE JOKE. Squawk?! YES, YOU ARE DEAD. I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THE ARROW WOULD HAVE GIVEN IT AWAY. Squawk? THAT WAS SARCASM, ANOTHER OF MY DAUGHTER'S SUGGESTIONS. WELL, MOST BIRDS CHOOSE TO COME BACK AS HUMANS. QUITE WHY, I'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND. BIRDS' LIVES SEEM SO MUCH MORE INVITING, THE BENEFITS OF WINGS FOR ONE THING, NOT TO MENTION THE LACK OF UNSIGHTLY BODY HAIR. Squawk? Death turned to follow the ex-bird's gaze. A figure was walking past the wailing caverns. THAT IS A TAUREN. BUT IF UNSIGHTLY BODY HAIR IS A PROBLEM, I'D RECOMMEND YOU CHOOSE A...MORE BALDING SPECIES. HUMANS SEEM POPULAR, THOUGH THEIR LEET SPEAK DOES GIVE ME A HEADACHE. Squawk? BLOOD-ELF? YES, A FAIR CHOICE.

As the hawk's spirit faded away, Death watched the hairy figure of the Tauren wander across the Barren towards Ratchet followed loyally by a blue raptor, who was enjoying what was left of the hawk. While keeping an eye socket on the tauren, he reached into his robes and pulled out a golden hour-glass engraved with the letters 'RHAKIN'. Much time remained, so it seemed, for this Tauren to make an impact on this world. He would continue to watch with interest as he returned over the seas to Celeste. A second hourglass with 'TORNHOOF' engraved on it appeared, showing only a few grains remained in its head. This pupil of the aged Tauren could indeed make a suitable successor for him. But would he take up the mantle of responsibility? This question always made Death curious – for if there was a responsibility, why would a creature not take it up? As he stowed his scythe he reflected that that was one of the things he greatly enjoyed about sentient creatures such as Taurens, Elves, Goblins and (to a lesser extent) Humans – the element of uncertainty intrigued him.

Reflections would need to wait however, as there were those who would be needing him in Arathi Basin; the alliance had lost.

Again.


End file.
